


mantra

by monkkeyslut



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkkeyslut/pseuds/monkkeyslut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm okay." She repeats it to herself like a prayer and tries to believe it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mantra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecivilunrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecivilunrest/gifts).



> This is a late birthday fic for Dicey. I hope you like it, lady! xo

 

 

 

1.

 

“I’m okay.”

It’s a routine now, before she goes to sleep, when she wakes up. _I’m okay,_ she says. Erica reassures herself, the part of her that is shaking and scared and in so much _pain_ that there is nothing that can hurt her anymore, that she is a god among men and women.

She does it long after she returns from the Alpha pack’s clutches, does it for weeks, months, years after.

And, somewhere along the way, she started believing it.

Stiles moves next to her, mumbling something under his breath, before burrowing his face closer into the pillow. Erica stares at the hand on her ribs, and his cute ass peeking out from under the covers, and then flicks him in the nose. “Wake up.”

Snorting, Stiles opens bleary eyes and then peeks over her to look at the clock. It’s blinking because they still haven’t set it since the last black out, so he presses the home button on her phone and groans at the time. “Fuck _me_ and morning classes, man.”

“I feel ya,” Erica says, but doesn’t move from her spot. If anything, she settles down lower.

“You don’t even have morning classes, you jerk,” Stiles rolls over, and stands from the bed, glaring at her while she watches him walk away, his freckled ass moving with each step. “Pervert.”

“Well I can’t help myself. You’re boyish looks and cute butt are just delicious.”

“Who are you, the big bad wolf?”

Erica laughs and pulls the covers up, watching her boyfriend get ready for his classes through the doorway leading to their bathroom. “I’m not _Derek,_ you jerk.”

“Oh _ew,”_ he glares at her, toothbrush stuck in his mouth, and Erica stretches out on the bed, enjoying the warmth of sunlight on her face. She wouldn’t actually mind having morning classes, since she’s an early riser, but all of her classes are mid to late afternoon.

She stands eventually, once Stiles is finished wetting down his hair and brushing his teeth. She’s just pulling on a shirt when he darts from the bathroom and into the living room, yelling, “Oh fuck, my history paper—“

“—nope, never mind here it is.”

And then it is looking at the time, rushing around their small apartment and yelling for Scott to come in as he knocks on the front door. There is kissing good-bye with coffee on his breath, and promises for pizza and a movie later that night.

_Yes,_ she thinks, happy and glowing, _I am okay._

* * *

 

2.

 

It is after a particularly gruesome fight with a phoenix on their third week into summer vacation, and Stiles has second degree burns running up his leg.

“It’s _fine,”_ he laughs, but his face is green and he’s sweating too much. Melissa McCall, saint that she is (Erica’s hero, really) shushes him and Derek presses a firm hand against his chest, shoving him back down onto the couch cushions.

“Didn’t she tell you not to look at it?” Both he and Erica snap at Stiles, who manages to look slightly put out at their combined reprimand.

“Didn’t _I_ specifically ask for at least four days without incident?” Lydia chirps from the Stilinski’s kitchen, and the Sheriff is nodding like she’s right. “I’ve only been here for what, four hours? You people are the reason I went to school in Boston.”

Jackson snorts, and Allison laughs, and bickering ensues, but Erica blocks it out and focuses on Stiles’ tight grip on her hand.

“Just a precaution,” he grins weakly, but when Melissa begins to do…whatever it is, to Stiles’ leg, he squeezes it hard enough for her knuckles to grind together, but his mouth stays firmly shut.

Afterward, when he’s breathing deeply through his nose, leg elevated, and hand still held loosely with Erica’s, he says, “I’m probably sleeping down here tonight, so you can crash in my bed.”

“I’ll be fine here,” she murmurs, eyes already shut. The only people still left in the house were the Sheriff, Derek, and Lydia, who has also been alternating between the couch and the kitchen, telling Stiles how dumb he is, and then telling Derek how she expects one of the comfier beds at the Hale House for making her go through a monster hunt on her first night back in Beacon Hills.

Erica likes Lydia, really, but the girl can be annoying sometimes, and pretty self-centered, so when she finally snaps at Lydia to let Stiles rest, she only feels a bit bad.

Thankfully, Lydia seems to understand, and only gives Erica one evil eye before leaving the house with Derek.

“I’m heading up,” the Sheriff— _John,_ Erica reminds herself, though it’s hard to call him that after years of calling him Sheriff—says, looking exhausted. “You taking his bed?”

“No, thank you,” she smiles softly, watching the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest.

“He’d want you to be comfortable, you know,” John chuckles, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’ll be fine.”

_You don’t know that,_ she almost says, but instead she shrugs her shoulders.

“Well,” he lets out a sigh and walks around her, grabbing a blanket draped over the back of a chair. “At least stay warm. ‘Night.”

“Goodnight,” Erica calls back.

* * *

 

She wakes after a while when she feels something in her hair.

Shifting slightly, she realizes that Stiles has his hand in her hair. Erica opens her eyes and smiles. “How you feeling, tough guy?”

“I’m okay,” he murmurs, tugging on her hair a bit, winking when she scowls at him. “How about you? I saw that thing hit you.”

“Just minor stuff, no burns.” She’d hit the wall of rock behind her pretty hard, though, and it had taken her a few minutes to see straight once more. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“This is nothing,” he laughs, eyes sliding shut once more. “I promise I’m alright, Erica.” He removes his hand from her hair and grabs her hand instead, tugging it until she moves onto the couch with him. She’s careful of his bandaged leg, but thankfully it’s the one closest to the cushions.

She presses tightly against him, shifting the blanket so it’s covering most of him, too. “Next time, when a werewolf tries to defend you, let them. We heal faster.”

“Scott didn’t need any more burns, he probably gets enough daily. I mean, you’ve tasted what he thinks is cooking.” He’s joking, but she knows he can tell she’s serious.

“Right,” she kisses his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

 

* * *

 

3.

 

“Oh, pardon me,” Erica laughs, but it’s a mean and spiteful sound. “I didn’t realize kissing someone else wasn’t considered cheating.”

“I…” Frustrated, Stiles slams the door shut behind him and runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t _kiss_ her! I don’t know what she said to you, but it was obviously a lie. You’re a fucking—a fucking walking lie detectors, couldn’t you tell that much?” He whips his jacket off with alarming speed and tosses it on the back of the couch, glaring at her where she stands in the kitchenette, arms crossed over her chest.

“I’m not new at this, you jackass,” and oh _fuck,_ she’s going to start crying if she doesn’t get away from him. “I listened to her heartbeat, but it didn’t skip.”

“Wha—it had to, because I definitely didn’t _ohmyfuckinggod…”_ His eyes widen, and bile rises in Erica’s throat. He looks like a deer in headlights, so of course he’s realizing something now, because he hadn’t been lying when he denied the other girl’s claim, but now…

Erica grits her teeth and kicks her heels off, leaving them where they fall in the kitchen, before stalking toward the bedroom. Her feet are sweaty and stick to the tiled floor and she just wants this night to be over. She needs to shower or _something._

“It was—Erica, it was a kiss on the _cheek,_ you big idiot!” He’s laughing, like maybe this is funny, like maybe some girl coming up to Erica in the middle of a _really great night_ and telling her that she’d just kissed her boyfriend is _funny_ , when it’s actually the exact opposite. Like Erica being _embarrassed_ in front of a bunch of her friends was funny.

She wipes angrily at her eyes, and manages to get to the bathroom before Stiles. The door, she is glad to say, slams in his face, literally, and she can hear him howling from the other side. She locks it because she doesn’t feel like holding it shut herself, and then stares at herself in the mirror.

She is, in two words, a hot mess. Her hair is disheveled from dancing and the heat outside made it frizzy. Her lipstick is nearly gone, and her eyeliner is smudged. She looks nothing like the girl who had been excited to meet her boyfriend’s new friends. No, she looks more like the girl she hasn’t seen in years, the girl she left behind.

Even when she wakes up in the mornings, hair a bushy mess, she still doesn’t look like that girl, there are no sores on her face, no acne scars. She doesn’t have dark bags under her eyes anymore, and she never will again.

This time she can’t stop the tears that come to her eyes, and she turns the tap on so Stiles can’t hear the noises she makes while she cries. Erica feels stupid and embarrassed and like she’s overreacting, but she doesn’t care and it’s not _fair_ that he thinks this is a joke, that he isn’t taking this seriously.

He manages to pick the lock, the fucking jerk, and seconds later he’s sitting with her against the tub, keeping to himself and looking really pathetically sorry. Probably not as pathetic as her, of course, but he’s working his way there.

“I didn’t uh,” he glances at her, gnaws on his lip, “think you’d be so upset. And for the record, she just came up and kisses me on the cheek. And she smelled like really bad B.O.”

“I know,” Erica lets out a watery, snot filled laugh. The girl _had_ smelled bad, and Erica would hope that Stiles would at least find someone decent to cheat on her. “I’m sorry for freaking out.”

“Sorry for laughing,” he mutters, holding out his hand, watching as she dabs at her face with their hand towel. “I really didn’t think.”

Sniffling, Erica grabs his hand and _squeezes,_ watches as he winces and yelps. Then, with a smile, “If you’re really sorry, I could use a hot chocolate.”

With a mock-salute, Stiles stands, pulling her to her feet as well. “I don’t know how well it’ll be made, since my hand is freakin’ _broken._ ”

She smirks, already turning her back to him and shuffling out of her pants to get in the shower.

“I really am sorry. It—it was embarrassing, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been through worse.”

“I’m sorry about that, too.”

Erica hums, giving him a look over her shoulder. “Hot chocolate better be ready when I’m done my shower.”

Stiles smile, and Erica repeats it in her head over and over, _I’m okay._

 

* * *

 

4.

 

“I love you,” Stiles kisses his way across her skin, tongue tracing scars that never healed, feeling like electricity, but better somehow. “I love you,” he repeats over and over, like his own mantra.

Erica breathes in, out, “I know. I love you too,” she tells him, pulling him up to kiss him.

“You’re okay,” Stiles tells her, and he is warmth, home, everything she could possibly want all wrapped into one thing. His hands race down her sides, over her hips and he is everywhere.

“I’m—

(she thinks, _i am a wolf, i am strong and fierce and beautiful. i am loved and cared for and respected.)_

\--okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
